


Stuck on the Puzzle

by springstorms



Series: charbitch <3 [2]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Charbitch, Comfort, Cuddling, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Tutoring, and is the most supportive man of all time, charlie's huffing, charlie's illiteracy, inception references, science bitch goes by doc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27453721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springstorms/pseuds/springstorms
Summary: I have been searching fromThe bottom to the topFor such a sightAs the one I caught when I saw yourFingers dimming the lightsLike you're used to being told that you're troubleAnd I spent all nightStuck on the puzzleCharlie learns that mistakes are part of growing & Doc comes to a realization.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly/Scientist (It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia)
Series: charbitch <3 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2005804
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	Stuck on the Puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> I'm soft! You don't have to read my other fic about these two to get this one, just know that it's set a few months after Doc starts tutoring him :)

Charlie was frustrated.

He was chewing on the end of a pen, staring morosely down at a three-ring notebook covered in half-finished attempts at writing a synopsis of _Police Academy._ He felt a little bit like crying, which made him feel ridiculous because this was such a small thing, which made him feel even more like crying.

The smell of noodles floated through the air and if he closed his eyes and concentrated he could hear the low, dulcet tones of Doc humming along to the Bob Dylan record he'd put on to listen to while he cooked in the other room. Beneath that was the thrumming of the traffic outside, so much quieter from Doc's apartment than his that it was almost eerie, leaving him always expecting to hear the yowling of alley-cats and the drunken singing of hobos starting up around dinner-time but instead hearing only the soft hum of his records and his voice and his central heating. 

Sometimes Doc wouldn't put any records on while he cooked and he'd let Charlie sit on a kitchen stool and chatter on about whatever he wanted, nodding along and going _hmm_ at all the right moments, occasionally pausing in genuine shock or concern like the time Charlie had tried to explain the rules to Chardee Macdennis. He could tell that he tried not to lecture Charlie about what he got up to with his friends too much, but it was times like that where he'd notice Doc gripping the kitchen knife a little harder as he chopped onions or carrots, jaw a little tighter as he told Charlie that his friends really ought to treat him better. 

Charlie wished tonight was one of the nights where he was on the stool, and he figured he probably could turn it into one if he wanted, but he knew that Doc would give him that reproachful look, the one where he raised both of his eyebrows and looked just the slightest bit dashed before the tenderness crept back in and he let Charlie take a break, offering him little bits of whatever he was making as Charlie talked and asking if he should add more salt.

Charlie was determined to complete his work this time, though, feeling guilty about how many times in the past few weeks he'd given up when he was meant to be practicing. It wasn't his fault there was always something going on, though! Plus Frank made fun of him whenever he tried to practice back at the apartment, _especially_ if he was trying to pronounce words out loud like Doc had taught him to. It felt just like school again at times, avoiding doing any work until he absolutely had to purely out of the dread that he wouldn't be able to do it. That was stupid, though, because he'd been the one who'd asked for Doc's help in the first place! He forced himself to look back down at the paper:

_Then Muhonee get's stuck in a riot. A criminol steals Blankes and Kopeland's guns, then a gang take's Hairis hostage. Then_

_then_

Charlie kicked the leg of the nice coffee table in exasperation and watched it wobble for a few seconds before returning to normal. He heaved a dramatic sigh and doodled a geometric S and a couple 3D squares on the paper's margin. 

"How's it going, Charlie?" He heard from over his shoulder, making his hand jerk in surprise and sending a stray pen line across what he'd already written. He wished he could scribble the whole thing out before Doc saw. 

"Apologies, I didn't mean to sneak up on you." He said, walking around the couch to sit next to Charlie. 

"Oh, no problem, man!" Charlie forced a laugh. "It's, uh, going alright."

"May I look at what you have so far?"

Charlie fought the urge to sink lower in the cushions and nodded, tilting the notebook so that Doc could see it. Doc took it gently from his hands, peering at the writing. His face was smooth and impassive, only a tiny quirk between his eyebrows that was usually there. Charlie couldn't tell what he was thinking and chewed his lower lip, fiddling with the pen. 

Finally Doc looked up, smiling kindly. "You're doing very well so far, Charlie. Did you get stuck?"

Charlie shrugged.

"Here, try another sentence or two and then we can take a break. Dinner's almost done." Doc clasped his hands together. 

Charlie put the pen to the paper, trying to focus. 

_Then Muhonee tries to save Hairis but get's taken hostage too. Then when they are about to be killed Hitower show's up and nock's the gang leader unconshus._

Charlie scribbled out unconshus, knowing it looked wrong. He could feel Doc watching him, something that was encouraging when he was doing well but still made him nervous when he got stuck, like he was waiting for the perfect moment to laugh at Charlie or decide that he was a complete lost cause. 

"Unconscious is a hard one." Doc said patiently. "It ends the same as _delicious,_ if you recall."

Charlie frowned, trying to visualize the word in his mind. "But it's not s h u s?" he asked, chewing on the end of the pen again and turning to look at him. 

Doc shook his head after a beat, reaching up to gingerly take the pen from his mouth before wiping the end on the arm of the couch. "Here." He said, writing out _unconscious_ in neat script.

"So many extra letters." Charlie muttered. 

Doc huffed a laugh. "Very true. You would hate French." 

Charlie wrinkled his nose. "I _do_ hate French. Except for the part in _Psycho Killer._ " 

Doc squinted, trying to remember the lyrics. "Ce que j'ai fais, ce soir la…?" he quoted, trailing off when he didn't remember the next part. 

"Yeah, that's totally it, dude! I always just make the sounds that sound like what he's saying." 

"I might have an old _Talking Heads_ album in my things from University." Doc mused. "We can look for it after dinner if you'd like." 

Charlie nodded eagerly. " _Hell_ yeah, dude." He looked back down at the paper. "Do you want me to keep going…?"

"This is almost the end of the film, right?" Charlie nodded. "Okay, try one more sentence, then we'll go over everything. Remember what I said about apostrophes last week." He said. Charlie didn't remember what he'd said about apostrophes but didn't want to admit that. Something about possession? He was supposed to remember it because it reminded him of _The Exorcist,_ but he couldn't. 

_Muhonee and Hitower both gradju…_ he scratched it out, frustrated. "I can't get any word longer than, like, four letters." he complained.

"You got _hostage,_ that's adifficult one. _"_ Doc pointed out.

"That's only 'cause I had to write a statement for the cops after the McPoyles held us hostage one time." Charlie said. 

"Of course." Doc echoed. 

"I know, right? They made us trash the bar and wear their clothes and shit and then I tried to kill Frank for Mac so that we could share his money but it didn't end up working out." 

Doc blinked. 

"It was a long time ago, though, man. Like, _years._ Way before everybody turned into zombies at their wedding like I told you about." 

"I recall." Doc said lightly, shaking his head to himself. "If I never meet those people it will be too soon." 

Charlie laughed at that, momentarily distracted from his frustration. He was still fiddling with his pen, pulling at the clicker without paying attention when suddenly his hands were wet. He looked down, confused, to see that the pen had burst open, leaking ink all over his hands and onto the fabric of Doc's couch. " _Shit!"_ he said, immediately standing up and holding his hands face-up to try to keep the drips of ink from getting onto the hardwood floor. There were stains of ink where he'd been sitting, smudged into the light fabric of the couch. "Fuck, dude, I'm _so sorry."_ He said, voice shrill and eyes wide and anxious. 

Doc was already on his feet, hands a steady pressure on his shoulders as he steered him to the bathroom. "It's perfectly alright, Charlie, it was an accident. Just don't touch anything and I'll be with you in a moment. I can get the stains out if I'm quick." 

Charlie tried to nudge the sink handle with his elbow, trying desperately not to get ink anywhere else. He watched the ink swirl in the sink, dripping from his fingertips in pearls of dark blue and leaving tiny splatters in against the white porcelain of the sink as they fell. He did his best to get most of the ink residue out of the sink and off of his hands but they were still mostly stained blue, especially under his fingernails. He stared down at his hands, the familiar feeling of being a colossal fuckup bearing down on him almost like a physical weight. 

He finally looked up into the mirror and saw his face, sweaty and with a dark streak of blue down his cheek. He sighed, trying to scrub at it but only succeeding in making it slightly lighter and smudging it. He finally gave up, drying his hands before sinking to a sitting position on the dark rug in front of the sink just in case there was any on his jeans from the couch that could get onto the white toilet lid. He bit his lip, feeling like crying again. If he hadn't been chewing on the pen like an idiot it probably wouldn't have burst. If he'd been better at writing he would have been using the pen to do that instead of chewing on it to begin with. Fucking apostrophes. 

He could hear the intermittent sound of a spray bottle in the other room but nothing else. He stared at the smooth wood of the cupboard across from him, wiping his eyes. Maybe he could distract himself by trying to read the labels on whatever was under the sink. 

He dug out a bottle of distilled bleach for cleaning, figuring it would be familiar enough that it'd be easier to read even if all of the chemical names were always super long and hard for him to sound out. He stared at the bottle, still feeling the telltale burning in his eyes and throat that came with holding in tears. He forced himself to focus. 

_Sodium persulfate, sodium perphosphate…._ was that one of those words where the Ps were like Fs? 

His fingers were itching to open the bottle, already tightened around the top. "Uh, Doc?" he croaked out. 

"One more minute! Are you alright in there? Did you touch any towels?"

Charlie looked up at the hand towels on the towel-rack, light blue fingerprints imprinted in the fabric. He thunked his head against the wall, still fiddling with the cap. One inhale wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. It would probably help him stop crying before Doc came in. He twisted open the bottle, taking a few quick gulps. It smelt familiar and super comforting, freezing time for a few brief seconds of respite. He shut his eyes, savoring it. Just a tiny amount...

Doc finished blotting at the couch, only a light blue tinge left over in the spots where there'd been ink. He waited for Charlie's response and stiffened when he didn't, getting to his feet and leaving the towel he'd been using on the floor. 

The bathroom door was cracked and when he tried to push it open it banged into Charlie's side. "Sorry, are---" he cut himself off, taking in the scene: Charlie's eyes were wide and startled and he was scrambling to screw the cap of a bottle of bleach on, coughing. " _Charlie?"_

"Oh, uh, hey, Doc!" He said, voice high and strained. 

Doc didn't respond, holding his hand out sternly for the bottle and leaving to hide it in the laundry room after Charlie reluctantly handed it over. He took a moment to move the Linguine onto a low heat to keep it warm, sighing and wondering what the best way to go about approaching this was. 

He nudged the door back open and slid through the crack instead of asking Charlie to move, sliding to a seated position on the floor next to him. Charlie looked surprised that he'd done that then reached up and pushed the slider on the lights down, dimming the lights so they weren't so bright. Doc wanted to ask but decided against it, picking up on the way Charlie kept scrubbing at his face self-consciously like he wanted to remove the redness from his eyes and the blue smudge from his cheek. 

"Charlie, why were you huffing?" 

He avoided eye contact, pulling at a thread in the ripped knee of his jeans. "I dunno, I just, um, felt really bad. About your couch. And your towels. But it was only, like, two inhales, man, I swear!" 

"That's still too much." Doc said gently. 

Charlie was pulling at the threads of the ripped knee of his jeans, eyes downcast. "I know. I was practicing reading on the back first, though."

"I'm proud of you for practicing. You don't have to feel guilty about an accident, though, Charlie. The couch is fine and even if it wasn't I could always just flip the cushion over." 

"I can't picture you doing that." Charlie said, finally looking up with a small smile. The smile faded when he looked back over to the towels. "But I also fucked up the towels." He said, guilty look returning. 

Doc got to his feet and made a point of flipping the towels so that the non-stained side was facing out. "See? Good as new." 

"What, are there holes behind all of the pictures too?" Charlie asked, a hesitant attempt at a joke. 

"Of course not, just don't check behind the bookshelf in the sitting room." 

Charlie peered up at him, unable to tell if he was joking or not. "For real?"

Doc rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "Well, one night a few years ago I had a bit too much to drink and thought it would be a good idea to try to mount shelves without reading the instructions. There are four different holes from my failed attempts." He held out a hand to help Charlie up. 

Charlie let out a genuine laugh, grabbing Doc's hand. "Still nicer than my apartment." 

Doc didn't think that would be a difficult feat to accomplish but didn't voice this thought, instead pulling Charlie out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" 

"A little." He admitted, following behind him like a lost puppy and perking up when he noticed the shredded parmesan on the cutting board. 

It wasn't until they were both pleasantly full and back on the couch (both sitting on the left side to avoid the still-drying cushion) that Doc re-broached the huffing topic. His brown eyes were gentle and Charlie wasn't used to seeing them this close, his dark lashes delicate. "When was the last time you huffed, before today?"

"Almost a month." He said, proud that he didn't have to lie. He'd been trying really hard to distract himself whenever he got the urge, looking through one of the books about the ocean Doc had lent him or getting mixed up in whatever the gang had going on. Cleaning the bar took longer because he had to take breaks, but it was worth it to see the pleased upturn of Doc's lips, the genuineness in his voice when he told him he was doing well. He could always tell he meant it which was nice because he wasn't always sure if Doc was telling the truth or not when he complimented Charlie for something else, like his writing or like the time he'd made him a Grilled Charlie and Doc had smiled and told him how good it was but also only eaten, like, half of it. 

"That really is excellent, Charlie. There are always good and bad days, and relapsing is part of the process of getting better. I don't want you to feel like you need to apologize to me for dealing with emotions the best way you know how."

"I wasn't gonna go home and do it more, man, you don't have to worry." He said weakly, feeling disarmed by Doc's earnestness. 

"I _do_ worry, I can't help it." He said, giving a self-conscious laugh.

"Nobody's ever, like, given a shit like that before." Charlie admitted. "Except my mom, but she's a whole other level. You could probably write an entire book just about her brain alone."

"You've not mentioned her much." Doc observed.

"Yeah…" He rubbed at his jaw, tugging at the short hair of his beard. "I'll get into it sometime. Not right now, though." 

"Alright." Doc said immediately, eyes kind. "What _would_ you like to do?" 

"No more writing tonight?" He asked hopefully. 

"Deal." Doc said. "You were doing well earlier, though, I hope you know that."

"Ehhh…" Charlie said, picking at his blue nails.

"Seriously. You're writing fully coherent sentences, Charlie, the ideas are much more important than the grammar." 

"Thanks, man." Charlie said quietly. "I just don't want you to feel like you have babysit me. I know I can kinda bring trouble and everything..."

"Nonsense. If anything I don't want you to think I'm the most boring man on the planet."

"Hardly! You're like human google, man, you don't have to pretend to be smart like Dennis. You just _are."_

"Thank you, Charlie." He said, something like fondness making his sharp face all soft.

They were silent for a long moment, faces close, before Charlie laughed slightly awkwardly. "Okay, man, well, do you just wanna watch a movie or something?" 

Doc cleared his throat. "Yes, alright. You pick."

"Really? I thought it was your turn…"

"You pick." 

"Okay… have you ever seen _Inception?_ Every time I try to watch it with Frank or Mac they get annoyed because I ask too many questions." 

"That's the one with the dreaming, right?"

"Yeah! It's like dreams within dreams within dreams, or something."

"Let me look for it." 

Charlie started asking questions around 20 minutes in, most of which Doc had no idea how to answer because he hadn't seen the ending, "So this could totally happen in the future, right?"

"I'm not sure, honestly. People can control dreams through lucid dreaming, but it's unlikely that we'd be able to enter other people's."

"That's lame." Charlie said, jaw cracking in a yawn. He leaned his head on Doc's shoulder and Doc stiffened slightly, immediately hyperaware of his own breathing and movement and not wanting to stir Charlie. "You don't mind this, right?" Charlie asked, breath tickling his neck. 

"Of course not." He said simply. Charlie immediately took that as the go-ahead to go full octopus, worming one arm behind his back and the other across his torso and snuggling into his side. "I am completely lost." He said, voice muffled. 

"I think you're meant to be. It's like looking at a painting super close and as the movie goes on you're slowly backing away and seeing more of it." 

"I guess." He said, yawning again. Charlie really was remarkably warm…  
  


Doc woke up four hours later with a persistent pain in his neck and the same warm pressure against his side, Charlie using his chest as a pillow and snuffling into his shirt, mumbling something in his sleep about a "nightman". Doc lifted a hand and placed it in his hair, soothing him and listening to his breathing calm, deep and raspy like a cat's purring. 

The TV had shut itself off, the dull glow from the bathroom the only light in the darkness, making what he could see of Charlie's face fuzzy and soft-edged, the messy cowlicks of his hair like tiny peaks and valleys from so close up. 

He didn't care if he spent the rest of the night sore and unable to sleep if it meant he could listen to that sound a little while longer, feel Charlie's warmth against his side a little longer. He'd give up hundreds more sofa cushions and towels just to keep seeing the furrow in his brow as he concentrated on a difficult word or the way his voice got all shrill and excited when he was telling a particularly unbelievable story. (Most of his stories were unbelievable, but having met the gang, he never doubted a single detail.) 

His breath only hitched once when he was hit by the full weight of his feelings, the pressure in his chest rapidly expanding in a strange mix of tenderness and pain. He wasn't sure he wanted the feeling to stop, was pretty sure he couldn't stop it even if he did. How could something that felt so soft make him ache like there was barbed wire wrapped around his heart? 

He didn't know how Charlie would feel in the morning, most likely he wouldn't acknowledge that there was any kind of shift in their dynamic. _Was_ this a shift? Or just an extension of the feelings he'd already had, brought more sharply into focus by Charlie's proximity in a way he could no longer ignore? Charlie tended to adjust to new circumstances pretty quickly, though---he literally shared a bed with a man who was potentially his father, a little bit of cuddling wasn't going to faze him. 

"Get a hold of yourself." He muttered to himself, feeling like he was on the edge of a very steep drop. Charlie shifted and mumbled something unintelligible, his sooty lashes fluttering, barely visible in the dim lighting. Doc tried to ground himself, focus on the simple tangibility of Charlie's warmth and presence. For now they were safe and warm, that's all that mattered. 

He shut his eyes. 


End file.
